I roll onto my side and stare out the venetian blinds at the blue sky beyond. After a few minutes I'm lulled into a sort of peace. The sky, the sky--same as it always was.

I don't like outlining, because books are organic things. Sometimes a book doesn't want to be written in a certain way.

I'm truly grateful for my microwave, which allows me to easily clarify butter, steam vegetables, and - when I am really lazy - feed my three kids in less than five minutes.

The more distressing the memory, the more persistent it's presence.

So what if I'm ninety-three? So what if I'm ancient and cranky and my body's a wreck? If they're willing to accept me and my guilty conscience, why the hell shouldn't I run away with the circus?

Then I lie down on the horse blanket and drift into a dream about Marlena that will probably cost me my soul.

Dear God. Not only am I unemployed and homeless, but I also have a pregnant woman, bereaved dog, elephant, and eleven horses to take care of.